


Free Drinks

by LivaWilborg



Series: Skin and Scars [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Rogue, Edward Kenway's Reputation Has a Cameo, M/M, Possible Precursor Site, Random Inattentive Barmaid, Shaytham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shay<br/>Haytham</p><p>Some emotions, some promises that Haytham will lose control, some sex, some pillow-talk about ...Edward Kenway.</p><p>Also, Gist gets to punch Shay in the face. Yeah. It's good for him. It builds character.</p><p>(In case you are interested, this story has been translated into Chinese by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoot1984/pseuds/Shoot1984"> Shoot1984</a>. You can read the story <a href="http://yangyu201.lofter.com/post/1e67a4e8_11cc39c1">here</a>. =D)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Drinks

It was always a kind of strange amusement to him overhearing Gist and Jack Weeks conversing. From out of many year’s companionship came an ever-present synergy of shared expressions, most of which was more or less complete nonsense to an outsider, unless the speakers made a conscious effort to translate.

Vaguely pondering why “saddling the nose of a vulture” seemed, from context, to indicate something related to gunpowder yields, Haytham trod alongside the two, enjoying the unusually mild weather that gripped the city, the sun mocking the fact that it was the first of December. It was still cold, but not so much that being outside was painful.

He had met Gist and Weeks at the harbour by chance after picking up a package he had been expecting, and they had simply gone in the same direction as him when he left. Haytham’s part in the conversation had quickly faded, however, and he went back to just enjoying the walk, the weather, the busy city, as he listened to Gist and Weeks’ chatter and allowed his thoughts to wander a little.

To Shay. As usual.

He had stayed a few, very memorable, days but kept to his decision of taking the Morrigan out to unknot his own thoughts, as he had put it, about Hope’s death.

It had been a month now.

Haytham had been debating with himself if he was missing the man? If they would meet on the other side of Shay’s trip and simply pick up where they were before Miss Jensen died?

In comparison to the week he had spent after the Incident in the Guest Room, which he now kept as a very warm memory, the last month had been hardly a bother.

Perhaps they had worked through it; the lust? …Or whatever it was that had fuelled those couple of days before Shay’s departure? It still returned to him as vivid flashes, a longing for the sight and feeling of Shay’s body, touching him, a longing to be touched by calloused hands, to taste his tongue, scars, skin…

Evidently, there was still a plethora of …longing. He sighed inwardly at himself.

But there were plenty of matters in the real world that could demand his attention, even with the assassins being predictably quiet after Hope’s death, and he was able to function without fear of suddenly exploding from frustration.

The central question that bothered him more than he liked to admit was the one he couldn’t predict. When they met again, how would they react to each other? Would it be awkward, hostile, regretful? Pleasant? There was no way to puzzle this out, since he had no experience in dealing with having been naked with a subordinate. He also had a genuinely annoying lack of information about whether this was somehow normal for Shay? He didn’t really think so, but was loath to draw conclusions from empty assumptions and vague feelings.

He pushed the thoughts away with finality. Not here, not now!

He focused on the conversation between Gist and Weeks instead as they walked along the busy harbour. In the bag Haytham carried lay the package from François de la Serre that had just arrived via an English trader, sympathetic to the cause. He could easily have sent a servant to pick it up, it wasn’t a package of secrets, but a book, the latest in their ongoing bet to rival each other with stunningly inept literature.

“Master Gist.” Haytham interjected as soon as there was an opening in the conversation. “You keep a diary, do you not?”

“Well, certainly I do,” Gist confirmed. “though not of any details better kept behind the teeth. Why?”

“I was just thinking about home. England; Europe, that is. There are sure to be many people there who would be curious enough about the intricacies and adventures to be had on the frontier of the New World to forego any political grudges for the reading of it. Perhaps it should be printed?”

Gist gave a laugh. “Printed, Sir? My humble scribbles?”

Jack clapped a hand on Gist’s shoulder: “You could always add some paragraphs about feisty native girls to appeal to a broader audience.”

“But they are already there. I think I should rather remove them to appeal to a more exclusive readership.” Gist brushed an imaginary grain of dust off his coat sleeve. “If I am to be a printed man, I want readers of class, not lewd riffraff like you.”

Haytham smiled and went back to his own thoughts as the conversation beside him became increasingly creative. The idea was now planted in Gist’s head. It might take a while, but if he succeeded in having Gist’s diary, printed and in his hands, it was sure to be a breakthrough in the book-bet with de la Serre. Authentic colonial literature, and doubtlessly as loud in print as Gist was in real life. It could only end in triumph.

They turned to go down a busy street, but as they rounded the corner, a sharp, nerve-piercing whistle cut through the air making almost every pedestrian turn towards the sound.

Gist started laughing as he faced the harbour: “Our prodigal son returns!” he boomed. “Loudest whistle in the New World.”

Haytham turned, waving a few people out of the way, and spotted Shay coming towards them from the harbour. It was a split second before he recognised him, however. In lieu of the black leather coat he normally wore, a finely tailored dove-grey velvet jacket, silvery embroideries winding up the sleeves and collar, hugged his lean frame. The contrast to the rest of the man, obviously a sailor with his baggy shirt and pants, heavy boots, rough woollen scarf, sash and the weapon belt with knife and well-used cutlass, was remarkable to say the least.

Haytham shook his head: “I wonder what poor sod saw fit to gift him that piece of clothing.” he remarked quietly.

“…Whoever it was, I have a feeling it wasn’t entirely voluntary.” Jack said, laughter in his voice as they made their way harbour-side again, meeting Shay in the middle.

“Well, this is a fine coincidence. I can settle my debt, quick and pain, right off the Morrigan.” Shay grinned. He met Haytham’s eyes, shifted two scrolls of maps and the ship’s log so he could hold it under one arm and extended his hand.

“Sir.” Shay simply said, as they shook hands. There was a kind of comfortable contentment to him that was new, Haytham thought. His shoulders were relaxed, there was a calm in his gaze. The idea of having him naked aboard the Morrigan, since apparently that had a beneficial effect on the man, presented itself vividly to Haytham’s thoughts, and was immediately banished.

“Welcome back, Master Cormac. …Nice jacket.” Haytham commented, seeing the little hint of a smile turn into a smug grin.

“That’s what I told the original owner, a short while before he decided to donate it to my cause, Sir.”

“Please, don’t tell me the details.”

Shay grinned, bowing in acquiescence. “As you say, Sir.” He then shook hands with Jack and extended his hand to Gist who just took a step back, crossing his arms, a sort of expectant half-amusement hiding just under the surface.

“I hate to sound like a spurned and lovesick maiden, but I was under the impression I was your first mate?” Gist commented.

Shay gave an exaggerated sigh, handing Jack the maps and log-book he carried. Then he shrugged off the velvet jacket, holding it out to Haytham, with a polite “Please, Sir? I’m about to pay for my crimes.” 

Jack and Haytham took a step back. Passers-by gave them odd looks.

Gist nodded with respect and waved his hand a little to signal Shay a few paces sideways. “Puddle behind you. No need to make this messier than it has to be.” he commented conversationally.

Shay sidestepped, hands to his side. “Do it, mate. I owe you.”

Gist cracked his knuckles, nodding.

Haytham winced when Gist’s fist connected solidly with Shay’s cheek. The blow sent Shay staggering back a few paces before he collapsed, barely twisting himself in time to land on his side on the ground. He lay there for a few seconds, as pedestrians gave loud gasps and a young woman screamed and stopped in her tracks next to Haytham.

“Don’t worry, Miss.” he told her, briefly taking in the prettiness of her face and attire. “I’ll have these rogues off the streets in a moment.”

“Oh… Thank you, Sir.” The young woman smiled, looking him over, her expression of shock now largely theatrical. “I’m so happy a gentleman is willing to stoop to getting rid of these elements for everyone’s sakes.” she added, eyelashes batting.

“Kind of you to say. Good afternoon, Miss.” Haytham turned away. He registered a small insulted exclamation from the young woman when she realised the flirt had ended before it began, but his attention was focused on Shay on the ground, spitting a mouthful of blood before he waved off Gist’s extended hand. Then he hauled himself to his feet, a little unsteady, probing his face where Gist’s ring had cut his cheek: “…’Attwas for the guest room, right?” he asked woozily.

Gist nodded sagely.

“Alright. For the first mate thing, then. Do it.” Shay stood up straight.

 _Not the lips!_ Haytham thought. And immediately reined his inner dialogue back tightly.

“I’m not a vengeful man, Captain!” Gist said, picking Shay up in a bear-hug before releasing him. “Why’d you run away like that? Wasn’t like the Grand Master, begging your pardon, Sir,” he nodded at Haytham, “was a fountain of information as to your whereabouts.”

Shay paused, looking briefly a Haytham.

 _Give me a sign that you need it, and I’ll lie for you._ Haytham realised in his mind, surprised at himself.

“We all carry our past around.” Jack interrupted evenly, “But Shay’s is heavier than most. Leave him be.”

“I suppose…” Gist padded Shay’s shoulders, shaking the man. “You missed some good fights, though, mopping up the last gang members. But now…” he released Shay and took a step back: “Drinks, my fine, semi-lawful friend …are on you! Especially since you’ve left behind your normal hang-gallows look in favour of moneyed gentleman.”

Shay grinned, blood on his lips. “Drinks are on me… Apparently. Come along, Sir?” He turned to Haytham: “Don’t leave me alone with these two.”

Haytham had never accepted an invitation like this, although they were often extended out of politeness. Before he had become fully settled in the New World, meeting at a tavern was a necessity, but he’d never allow himself to get as much as tipsy with the men over whom he had authority.

However, the chance to surprise, served to him on a silver platter… The chance to gauge Shay’s reactions.

“I wouldn’t wish that grim a fate on anyone.” Haytham said. “And who am I to say no to a free drink.”

Weeks gave a laugh: “The Grand Master accepts? The time of miracles has apparently not passed!”

 

o-0-o

 

Two drinks into the evening Haytham had bought a round and paid the tavernkeep to fill his bottle with cold tea, which masqueraded beautifully as brandy, keeping him sober and steady on his feet without wearing down the mood around the table. Besides, the sot-weed and music-filled atmosphere of the crowded tavern was noisy enough to be veritably disorienting, and keeping his drinking choices secret wasn’t a challenge.

The dice game they had been playing for a while was also a fine distraction. It required you to keep your actual roll secret and make the next man in line, Shay in his case, buy the lie of a bigger roll if needed. The man was annoyingly good at separating the truths from the falsehoods and the decent amount of money Shay had won was piled in front of him. _Shouldn’t he be thoroughly rum-baked by now?_ Haytham wondered.

Jack Weeks had slinked off for a while to _‘_ chat’ with the barmaid, an otherwise fairly inattentive creature apparently known as Caroline-with-the-stunning-dairies.

Haytham had been vaguely impressed, since only charm seemed to have been exchanged, not coin.

With Jack absent, the dice game had ground to a halt and conversation turned to a discussion of trade-politics. Shay was rubbing the cut on his face and had hardly added anything to the exchange for a while, when finally he rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, and pushed the pile of winnings to the middle of the table. “My donation to the rest of the evening.” he interrupted, emptied his mug and then grabbed the log-book he’d apparently been sitting on, and tucked the scroll under his arm.

Shay’s eyes met Haytham’s in the noisy, smoke-filled tavern and he gave him a small, knowing smile before he turned to Gist, who had been interrupted in the middle of a passionate explanation. “Fort Arsenal calls. Sorry to break this up. Long day.” he said.

“…And someone appears to have punched your face.” Gist replied, giving a resounding laugh.

“Happens, I s’pose. …while being poisoned out of my mind. And having no control of my actions through no fault of my own.” Shay grinned. The two shook hands. Then Shay’s hand came to rest on Haytham’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you, Sir.” he commented. “And Gist, tell Jack that Caroline-thing was really well done!” he grinned, leaving the tavern.

Haytham looked after him briefly, and spotted the second of the map-scrolls Shay had been carrying earlier, left on his chair. He picked it up. “The prodigal son seems to be forgetful.” he commented.

“I’d suggest unfolding that to see where he’s been, but I suppose you know?” Gist asked.

“I suppose I do.”

Gist gave a laugh. “I’d better catch up with him.” he held out his hand for the sea-chart.

“Your tavern-skills are greater than mine. Better you stay here and defend our drinking-honour.” Haytham stated, reached for his coat and got up to leave before catching himself: “…Did Master Weeks really just make off with the only serving-wench on charm alone, or did I miss something?” he felt compelled to have clarified.

Gist gave a loud laugh. “Tavern life, Sir! All those skills we have, that you miss out on knowing anything about…”

Haytham couldn’t keep a smile off his face: “I’m certain you utilise those deep mysteries well enough without my knowledge. Goodnight, Master Gist.”

As he left the tavern, feeling the blessing of crisp, clean, icy air in his lungs, he heard Gist’s booming voice calling out to entice new dice players to the table.

 

o-0-o

 

At the end of the street, where the raucous noises from the tavern were just a memory and the city was swallowed by the darkness, Shay was leaning against the corner of a house, hands in the pockets of the grey jacket, log-book and map pinned under one arm. He gave a crooked, satisfied smile when Haytham wordlessly handed him the scroll.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d take the bait, Sir.” he admitted.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d offer any.”

Shay frowned a little, though the smile remained at the corner of his mouth. “You thought I’d had my fill?”

“I can’t presume to know your limits, Master Cormac. …Especially after five beers and more rum than I kept track of.”

Shay laughed softly. “The beer was decent, but the rum was tea. I tried keeping up with Gist once and woke up in a ditch twelve miles from where I started, with a broken rib and no shoes. I learned my humbling lesson then, in the course of two glorious days of hangover. …Don’t tell Gist, though. I’d never hear the end of it.” he added as an afterthought. Then he nodded down the street. “Fort Arsenal is close.”

They started walking through the quiet streets towards Shay’s home.

“Tea…” Haytham shook his head. “I wonder if the other two were actually drinking…”

“You too?” Shay smiled. “I thought I was being clever.”

“I cannot afford to lose control in front of anyone from the Order. You must know that?”

“You can, and will, lose control with me.” Shay stated evenly, giving Haytham a calm stare as they walked.

Haytham’s mind leafed at lightning speed through an excess of possible replies, but in the end, none were exactly right. None were true, neither as replies, nor just to himself, even if he kept them unspoken.

“I’ve been a traitor once. I won’t be that again.” Shay said after a while, and Haytham realised the man had been observing him, appraising his reaction.

“…I have no fear that you will be.” Haytham replied honestly, as the gate to Fort Arsenal came into view at the end of the street, the lantern shining from the small gatehouse a welcome beacon in the cold night. The only reply he got was a satisfied nod and they walked on a while in silence.

Shay took the lantern left by the caretaker and they walked up the path.

“Shay…”

They stopped by the door to the main house.

“ _Haytham_?” Shay gave him a look, bordering on rebellious, almost like a child testing the limits of a grown-up’s benevolence.

Haytham gave a short laugh despite himself. “You have thought this over in the last month, I see…”

“So have you.” Shay pinned the book tighter under his arm, unlocked the door and swung it open behind him, but remained standing in the doorway.

“You are expecting me to retreat, aren’t you? You think you can scare me off with demands of losing control?” Haytham realised, uncharacteristically speaking the question as he thought it.

“You are so used to hiding everything, I couldn’t begin to know what to expect. But it seems a possibility.” Shay stated, eyes darkly serious, standing with his lantern, scrolls and log-book like a mythical sentinel full of harsh, allegorical significance.

Haytham bowed his head to hide his smile, but then realised it wasn’t even remotely about to fade. Instead, he reached out, put a hand on Shay’s chest and pushed him gently backwards into the house, kicking the door shut behind them.

 _I_ did _miss you!_ he realised as he took in the evaluating look in Shay’s dark eyes in the shared little sphere of lantern-light in the dark hall. _I missed you desperately._

“Good. I still have access, then.” Shay finally said, a small grin spreading on his lips. “I wasn’t sure what I’d come back to. If it…” he shrugged slightly, “had somehow run its course.”

Slowly, Haytham stepped closer and his hands wandered up under the scarf Shay wore, caressed his neck under the fabric, the rough stubble of the jawline delicious to his touch.

“Let’s hear your ominous demands, then?” he requested. “I ‘can and will’ lose control with you?”

“I knew you couldn’t let that go…” Shay grinned, “I’m not demanding anything. Only telling you what will happen. Tonight.”

“I see.” Haytham removed Shay’s scarf so his hands could wander across skin easier.

“You started all of this.” Shay lifted the lantern so they could see each other better. “You had me on a bed, unable to resist. I want that same right.”

There was both confidence and excitement in Shay’s voice and Haytham felt the man’s body, pressed close to his own, react. “…Reasonable.” he just commented. _But when did sex become a question of fairness?_ he wondered briefly at the back of his mind.

Shay tilted his head, brushing his lips along Haytham’s jaw, breath quick and hot on his skin. “I will touch you, and play with you. And I will enjoy seeing when you lose control; because of me.” he promised,

The exhilaration of the impossibly slow kiss that followed was amplified even more so knowing that Shay’s hands were pinned by the damned book and lantern. That luxury, however, was promised to be short-lived.

 

o-0-o

 

There had been an amount of madness to it, in spite of the slow and gentle pace. No force had been used, only Shay’s quiet, focused determination. There had been the feeling that this, despite the intense pleasure, was against his nature. That by giving in, he was at risk of losing something; something increasingly undefinable, but vital.

He felt Shay’s panting breath on his skin as they calmed down together afterwards, sweaty, sticky, warm, grinning at each other when their eyes met. Haytham kept his fingers locked behind his head.

There had been a flood of delicious, arousing sensations; touches, the sight of Shay as he had pinned him down, intent on claiming for himself the right to explore skin and scars…

Letting him, uninterrupted, had been a battle, but every time Haytham had tried to move to touch Shay, frantic to feel the lean strength hiding under his skin, or opened his mouth to argue, he’d been stopped, by hands, withdrawing from what they _should_ be doing, to hold him down, or kisses that ended his arguments before they were spoken.

In the end he realised his options were either ending it or accepting it, there would be no middle ground. He had given in. Trusting Shay, leaving his own social, emotional, crucial armour at the door, was a difficult price to pay, but somehow also gratefully accepted.

“Now, can I move?” Haytham finally asked when his body was under control again.

Shay just nodded, a smirky grin on his face.

Haytham locked his arms around him, tilting him over so they were lying on their sides, close together. He studied the brown eyes for a while in the lamp-light, enjoying the quiet pleasure of Shay’s caressing touch to his skin and of running his hands softly over Shay’s side where the cruel bruise of last month’s fame had been.

Shay’s hand came to rest on a scar from a deep wound on Haytham’s back, close to his spine. “How are you not dead or crippled?” he asked.

Haytham laughed involuntarily: “Such subtle pillow talk.”

“Just answer the question. If you remember the rules, nothing leaves this room.” Shay said smugly.

“Fine… I’m not dead because of luck? A good physician.” Haytham shrugged slightly. “It cost me more than two months of time and a trail that went cold. …Bit of a bother.”

Shay just gave a small nod but didn’t ask further about it. Haytham couldn’t help wonder at the back of his mind if he would have told him if he had asked.

“Luck…” Shay just said, dismissively, and reached down to pull a blanket over them before retaking his place in the embrace.

“The Morrigan wasn’t in the harbour.” Haytham commented.

“She’s anchored at the southern dock. She’ll come home tomorrow, but it was easier, I had some cargo that needed selling.”

“I see.” Haytham said, trying to keep a smile off his face. “Cargo…”

“I didn’t plunder anything. Nothing illegal took place.” Shay laughed.

“Of course not. Why would I think that?”

“The people I bought it from probably didn’t come by it by legal means; but ‘probably’ gives my innocence some decent leeway, I think.” he stated, and Haytham gave a laugh. “Alright, maybe not a lot…” Shay shrugged, “But that wasn’t my focus anyway.”

“What was?”

“A …treasure hunt, of sorts. I got to talking to some people, and managed to get some coordinates on sites further south. It’s on the map.” He gestured at the scrolls thrown on a table by the door. “I wanted to show them to you anyway. I don’t know if this is just a bag of moonshine, but I heard about there being possible precursor sites in the West Indies …back before I left the assassins.” he added, then gave a small shrug. “It’s probably nothing, but since I came upon it with little effort, it might at least be worth a look?”

“Perhaps. …The West Indies.” Haytham disentangled himself from the embrace and propped a couple of pillows against the headboard so they could sit as Shay got up and fetched the scrolls. Seeing him naked when he walked across the room, easy, graceful strength in every movement, made Haytham smirk; although he quickly wiped the expression off his features when Shay turned towards him again. He took the scroll that was offered and unrolled the large sea-chart as Shay sat down next to him and held one end of the map.

A small voice at the back of Haytham’s mind had already been warning him, but seeing the familiar pattern of markers on islands… His finger traced from one to the other as he compared it to what he already knew.

“This one. I’m not familiar with this one.” he commented, mostly to himself, tapping the map. “How accurate do you believe this is?”

“Hard to tell. But I suppose you could send someone in the network to go and take a look?” Shay shrugged.

“If something is there, I have to be the one to unlock it.” Haytham said quietly.

There was a small smile in the corner of Shay’s mouth when their eyes met. “I had a feeling someone named Kenway couldn’t possibly say no to a treasure hunt.”

Haytham’s fingers tightened involuntarily on the paper he held and his eyes snapped back to the map, away from Shay’s gaze. He suddenly felt considerably exposed with only a blanket between himself and the world, and wished he’d had the wisdom to let the map wait until daylight when he was clothed, armed, less …compromised.

“Sir?” Shay leaned forward, a slightly puzzled look in his face.

“I will send someone there, just in case it’s a valid site.” Haytham said smoothly.

“…Was it in poor taste comparing you to a legendary pirate?” Shay demanded, still staring at him with an evaluating gaze. “It wasn’t meant that way.”

“No… Hardly.” Haytham said, strangely uncertain how to proceed.

“Then,” Shay gently let the map roll up and left it in Haytham’s hands. “why do I feel like I’ve just been kicked out of the audience chamber?”

Haytham couldn’t keep a small laugh back. “My apologies.” He held up the map. “Treasure hunts do in fact run in the Kenway family. I suppose I would never have come to the colonies if not for that.” Meeting Shay’s eyes he saw the mystified curiosity slowly condensing into a sort of disbelieving awe.

“There…” Haytham commented, “Do you feel back in the audience chamber?”

“So… You are actually related to Edward Kenway? _The_ Edward Kenway, the most brutal and filthy rich scoundrel to ever sail the seas; the one everyone is still telling tall tales about, above and below decks?”

Haytham nodded. “My father. Twenty-four years in his grave, though, almost to the date. …But, to get back to this,” he gestured with the map, “I’m fairly certain anything worth plundering and selling to the highest bidder, whether Templar or assassin, has already been removed by the illustrious Captain Kenway. He was active in this area for years. He may have been a ‘legendary pirate’, as you say, with all the chaos that entails, but he was thoroughly systematic in his greed. So…” Haytham shook his head, “I doubt if this is more than a sailor’s memory gone bad.”

Haytham sighed and finally met Shay’s steady gaze: “I don’t want this known. By anyone!”

“Because he …was affiliated with the assassins?”

“He got himself a pardon, somehow. For his crimes. But his past was obvious and much more well known than was good for anyone. Especially his children.” Haytham threw the map on the floor, and purposefully rested his hands on his drawn up knees so they wouldn’t fidget and make him appear as ruffled as he felt. “My father trained me. I suppose he was intending for me to become his successor in the British Brotherhood, so I could either live my life in his shadow or lug his legacy around for the rest of my days. So although everything turned out differently, I’d still rather …well, make my own luck.”

Shay gave him a sideways look and shifted in bed so their naked shoulders touched. “The British Brotherhood? You were born to be an assassin?”

“Another good reason not to tout the details of my background.”

“Captain Kenway was a full-fledged assassin?”

“Worse. He led them. But how can you not know? Are the assassins really that self-contained in their structure that one nest has no idea what happens in the other?”

“I only ever worked out of Davenport’s hideout.” Shay said, his slight shrug warm to Haytham’s skin. “And perhaps I was simply an inattentive student. Or maybe Davenport was just not the sort of mentor interested in sharing.” He hesitated a moment, but then continued calmly: “Like sharing that Mackandal’s lackey did exactly the same to Haiti that I ended up doing to Lisbon. He wouldn’t even recognise my anger, when I came back. But…” he fell silent, appearing to search for words and coming up empty.

“Have no fear. We will sort this out before they end up destroying more cities for their own twisted purposes. Fortunately, the Temple has both solid resources and an intelligence network that actually functions properly.”

“I trust that.” Shay did a strange little shake of his shoulders, as though dislodging the despondency hiding in their conversation. “So… speaking of the other Kenway…”

Haytham felt a little smile sneak up on him: “…The _other_ Kenway.” he commented, absorbing the sensation of Shay’s shoulder pressed against his, the nearness between them, the complete absurdity of feeling secure enough with another person to disclose personal information… Their eyes met and Haytham smiled disbelievingly, shaking his head.

Shay just nodded at him, a crooked smile at the corner of his mouth: “Nothing leaves this room.” he simply confirmed. “You don’t have to worry. Or plan how to get rid of me. Respectfully, of course, Sir. I’m not doubting that you’ve had a plan for how to get rid of me since before you even met me.”

“That’s very kind of you to trust.” Haytham said, trying, and failing, to keep a smile in check. “…Actually, since you’re so fond of bringing him up at inappropriate times, I thought I’d have Thomas Hickey strangle you.”

Shay laughed loudly: “This time, it was you! We are even on the Hickey-front now.” he pointed at Haytham. “Even!” he laughed.

“Not even remotely!” Haytham grabbed Shay’s wrist and hauled him close in a mess of blanket and pillows as he laid down. “You’re not the one who has to be able to do business with the man without untimely laughter. There is no ‘even’ in sight anywhere.”

Shay grinningly made himself comfortable, sprawled halfway across Haytham’s chest. “You would seriously have me believe that you, of all men on the planet, couldn’t keep a straight face?”

“Of course I can. But before you began this nonsense, I didn’t have to!” Haytham smirked, and their lips met mid-laugh.

“We’re still even.” Shay whispered provokingly.

“No,” Haytham put his arms around Shay and rolled him onto his back, pinning him down. “We aren’t even. And, trust me, you will be admitting that in a little while.”

 

 


End file.
